The God of Small Things, Truth, Beauty and a Post-Op Transsexual.

Beauty is whispered from ear to ear. She travels on your shoulder and leaves as and when she pleases. Beauty can only be witnessed. She must be noticed and quickly recognised as she tip toes behind your back disappearing into the crowd. Beauty sometimes disguises herself so as to keep hold of her exclusive celebrity status. She steps out and let’s herself be captured in the backgrounds of family photographs, she travels incognito in an old rain coat and Wellington boots. She could be sat behind you right now as you read…

The god of small things by Arundhati Roy is a collection of moments. A collection of times when beauty has let herself be photographed for publicity purposes. It is a spice to flavour the already exotic. Indian, Araby; as far removed from Wakefield and the Snooty fox in mid December as is spiritually possible. But then again, Eskimos came from Africa…

We arrived in Wakefield early enough to be treated to fish and chips with a cup of tea in the town’s premier greasy spoon. I wonder how many strangers pass through this place as I watch the waitress coming to terms with our existence within her cafe world. If someone had been playing the piano before we arrived then they would have stopped dead upon our entrance. I checked cordially the chair I was sat in for an owner’s name or a reserved sign, only to find no evidence of either. I smiled with relief as our expectance was consecrated by the tapping of a biro upon an order pad like a gavel bringing a court to order. “I’ll have fish and chips” was the ice breaker, followed by four “I’ll have the same”-s. I recognised this woman from somewhere, I tussled with the possibility of her being a famous celebrity in training for her latest T.V roll. An ex RADA girl who’s face I had seen a thousand times in a different context. I was woken with a start as The Nora Battie method actress returned to dispel that myth. Dinner was served! “Here are five of our finest dishes; we hope you all enjoy your meals and if you have any problems do not hesitate to call me. Bon appetite.” She didn’t use those words exactly; in fact she didn’t use words at all. She was beyond words, but that is how I interpreted the way in which our plates were rattled across the school dinner table following five separate lines of trajectory. “Bread with that?” She stunned us with pigeon English. Five stammered yes pleases which had been pre rehearsed throughout years of childhood ensued.

The Snooty Fox; Surrounded by a high-rise-forest, broken glass and burnt out cars is either a relic from an age before over development or an after thought from an Urban planning committee. You can almost hear it pleading to be relocated to a pretty town by the sea. The rest of the band set up camp in the van whilst I went in search of tea. The pub was over flowing with a rabble on the brink of ignition. They jumped on tables and chanted songs which had had the consonants removed by men in white coats who work for the national health organisation in an attempt to stop the spread of bird flu and other diseases prevalent in air born saliva.

There must have been a big football match, that or perhaps the snooty fox had upset a local cartel who were now inflicting revenge upon the owners by dismantling the place from the inside out. I ordered my tea and sat down in a dark corner to read and keep out of the way of this mob. I noticed the banner hanging above the stage and realised that the mob were in fact Yorkshire’s finest; out for their Christmas constabulary party. I wondered who would be called if trouble broke out? Drug dealers and car thieves? Or perhaps the fire brigade.

The engineer pervaded an air of indifference that was easily misconstrued as authority. I’m sure that he was a character from ‘mad max.’ I imagined him stumbling upon that dilapidated shack after an apocalypse and creating his own thunder dome. I looked out for Tina Turner; I was not surprised to see her everywhere. (Or her hair cut at least.)

I have learnt that there are many different species of audience; genial, indifferent, cool, transient....the most exciting animal is the one that wants to rip you to pieces. This audience wasn’t a Lion, or a bear, or a great white shark. It was more a mangy, rabid, mountain wolf; but still I was excited at the prospect of making a pet of it.

Our sound check was a stand off. Show no fear! A snap of jaws followed by the flail of a walking stick. I sat down amongst the pack as the first support band fired up. At this precise moment there must have been an A.P.B put out for a doughnut sale down the road and within thirty seconds thunder dome was emptied and refilled with tumble weed.

By the time we started our set the audience consisted of one engineer, two support bands, the bar staff and three middle aged women (one of whom was drinking pints and looked as though she could crush my head in her hand.)

Last night, Ash (The malt cross engineer) told me that I had the ability to think ‘outside of my box.’ He told me that this was a rare thing and that I was lucky. I wondered how many people around me were still in boxes. My conclusion after ten minutes of catatonia (not the band) was that; to think outside of your own box you need to have the ability to climb into the boxes of other people, this idea was on my mind for the entire evening.

I have made a conscious effort over the last few years to try to become more aware of the audience. To read them. That night I took that effort to the extreme. I watched the few people in the crowd as though they were the cast of a soap-opera. I scrutinised their clothes, wondered about the relationships that existed between each of them, I even attempted to lip read as they spoke. I wondered what it was like to be in their ‘box’.

I travel from my home town to the nearby city of Truro so frequently that I now suffer from a form of automation. I often recover my senses on arrival and cannot remember any specific details of the journey in between. It was the same for the performance that night. I mechanically played my part in the band. I was playing to people who had heard us before (or who at least would not ever hear us again). At the end of the effortless set the tall pint drinking woman came up to me and told me that I had made her night. I could see straight away (when up close) that this woman had not always been such. I couldn’t help but thinking about boxes and the obvious pun. She told me about her recent operations and pointed to her new breasts like she was showing off the latest mobile phone. She had a thick Yorkshire accent and made no attempt at hiding the fact that she was the only female Tenor in town. It struck me hard when the idea that she was the most important person in the audience came to me. Her opinion counted more than anybody else’s.

I imagined growing up against this grey, impoverished back drop. Of how beauty would become alien as it evolved to survive. How a boy would grow into a man and seek new forms of beauty. Of how the gaggles of women would flow passed your window, dressed in colours bright enough to show that they dream. It’s a fine line between loving what you see as beauty and aspiring to be a part of it. This new woman was not typically beautiful, not in the Indian sense but she was not entirely different to the beauty in the god of small things. She understood the concept; she had interpreted beauty and now wore colours bright enough to show that she dreamt. It’s a lesson everyone must learn. That beauty is a decision to follow. It is an aspiration. It is to notice beauty in the world around you, whether she be disguised as a supermodel or as an ex-panel beater from Lincolnshire.

That night I wondered, laid in the back of a Renault Master Van, cold and hungry and far from the people I loved. Is it beauty and truth (like that within the god of small things) that brought me here? And how is my expression of beauty different to the woman in Wakefield? As we drove down the motorway I think I understood the concept…